Common Denominator
by Ashley A
Summary: Set in the summer between BTVS seasons 45. Buffy and Angel take in a movie....


Author's note.

Set during the Summer between BTVS seasons 4/5.

Disclaimer:  Nope, not mine.

Thanks to Kristi for all the beta-ing.  You are awesome!

Feedback is welcome.

Enjoy!

*

Common Denominator.

Summer 2000.

The movie theatre is packed.  Every fanboy in the city is here.  Angel sits next to me, leather coat creaking as he shifts in his seat.  I hold a box of popcorn, but am having a hard time remembering it's there.  Anticipation runs high in the big room; or maybe that's the teenage boy sweat I'm smelling.

            The lights dim, and the previews start.  A cheer goes up through the theatre, and I am embarrassed to admit that the second the lights went down, a little chill went up my spine.

            Angel glances at me, and smiles briefly before turning his attention back to the screen.

            For the next two hours, I gasp, cry, laugh, and applaud along with the rest of the jammed place.

            I risk a glance at him about half way through, and he's riveted.  Not even blinking.  The first time we see Hugh Jackman pop his claws, he starts.  I grin inwardly, and squeeze his hand.  He squeezes back, and tucks it under his arm.

            When Ian McKellan and Patrick Stewart have their last tete a tete at the end, and when the words, "…and I will always be here, old friend," are uttered, the audience bursts into cheers, and wonder of wonders, Angel claps along with me as everyone begins to get up, gathering their things.  The crowd is moving like a herd of elephants as we make our way slowly toward the exit.

            The night stars twinkle over Hollywood boulevard, and the LA heat wafts still off the concrete sidewalks as Angel and I ride the escalator down to the street level.

            The neon lights of the Galaxy Theatre turn his hair a dark pink, and I giggle as I brush an errant lock back toward his hairline.

            He smiles that half smile, and captures my hand as I bring it back down to my side, placing a tiny kiss there, and goose bumps break out anew on my arms.

            "Coffee?" he asks, and I nod mutely, not trusting my voice.

            He steers me into a small Starbucks on the edge of Hollywood and Fuller, a half mile walk from the movie theatre.

            After procuring two mochas, _I love that he drinks what I drink when he's with me, _we sit on the small patio in the back, one of two couples enjoying the night air.

            "So," he starts, taking a small sip of his drink.  "What did you think?" 

            I cock my head, and take my time answering.  It's not everyday you get to see your favorite characters come to life on the big screen.

            "Considering I've been waiting like, three years to see this, I'm really surprised how much I liked it," I say finally, and he waves a hand, _and?_

"Hugh Jackman is the man," I continue.  "I can't see anyone else as Wolverine.  And Ian McKellan," I say, "I thought he was too old at first, but his presence made up for the age thing.  Patrick Stewart…I always thought he looked like Professor X when Xander made me watch reruns of Star Trek."

            "It was awesome!" he spouts, and I grin, _Angel says awesome now?  I'll only truly be surprised when he starts saying 'stoked' and 'so totally.'  Must be Cordy's influence on him. _

            A frown crosses my face at that last thought.  _She sees him every day.  That's not right._

"I'm not really familiar with the books, but I loved it.  Reminded me so much of the old Superman movies in the eighties.  I loved those," he admits, and would probably blush if he could.  I shake my head slightly.  "Sorry, a little before my time," I tell him, and he nods.

            "Of course.  You should watch them if you get a chance.  But not the fourth one.  Skip that one," he adds, and I bob my head.

            "The acting was superb.  And the FX!  Wow.  It's amazing the stuff they can do these days.  I might be tempted to see a new Dracula just to see how close they got it," he muses, and I take another sip of my mocha.

            It's weird to see him again in a casual setting.  This whole past year was a nightmare freak show, including the actual freak, and my months long fight to take him apart.  Adam's in the ground, things are settling, Spike's not a problem anymore, and I have Riley.

            And yet here I sit with Angel.  When I supposedly have a boyfriend.  Who doesn't know where I am right now.

            I sigh, and try to listen to Angel wax poetic about the metaphor the Xmen present, and try not to watch his shoulders flex, and his hands wave about, and his lips move as his talks animatedly.

            His lips…

            Which brings to mind a fantasy I had a few nights ago, and the reason for this meeting in the first place.

            Dad's new place is huge, and when he invited me up for the week, I hesitated at first, not too sure I should be abandoning my friends and Riley so soon after our Initiative weirdness.  But Willow insisted, and so here I am, in LA for a week.

            Of course after the first few days, Dad got some 'important' business call, and had to fly to San Fransisco for three days.  So he left me alone in his giant new condo in Bel Air, and it only took me about two hours of deliberation and one incredibly hot dream starring Angel to pick up the phone.

            So here we sit, drinking mochas and talking about superheros, on a date like we never had a history, like we never had pain, or suffering, or incredible romance or love.

            He stops talking when he realizes I'm not listening to him talk about the artistic license Bryan Singer took with the teams costumes, and touches my hand.

            "Buffy?  You alright?"

            "I thought you said you didn't know too much about the comics," I say, and he rolls his eyes.

            "I don't really.  But when you happened to mention how much you liked them, how they were 'just a big sweaty soap opera with fights imbetween bouts of angst,' I picked up a few."

            I give him the Buffy look.  "A few?  Sounds like you know more about the characters than Xander does."

            He shrugs.  "I don't have time for too much reading these days, but when I do, it's nice to be able to converse with the rest of the world," he says, and I understand.  Angel never was one for the pop culture-a-tude, and it always made him feel a little left out.

            "I'm teasing you," I say, avoiding the _are you alright _question.  His dark eyes bore into mine, and I look away uncomfortably, heat rising in my cheeks and in other places as I unconciously remember my dream, and the places those lips had been on me in it.

            He leans forward in his chair, and takes my hands in his.  "Uh huh.  Is that why you're staring into space like you suddenly see a big shoe sale sign?"

            I laugh unexpectedly at that.  He does still know me.  And that's a relief.  But again I have to wonder what I'm doing here with my first love, and not spending the summer with my boyfriend and his family in Iowa.

            "I'm sorry, Angel.  It's just…this last year was really mega, ultra, and all kinds of prefixes bad for me.  I have to wonder what exactly I'm doing here," I say, and he quirks an eyebrow at me.

            "Visiting your father?"

            "Here with you," I whisper, and he makes an _ah, I get you _face.  Not the expression I really want to see, but it's the appropriate one.

            "Instead of with Riley?" he counters, and I nod silently.

            "I wish I knew, Buffy.  But in all honesty, I would rather not know.  I would rather us just sit here, and drink our coffee, and talk about the movie, or the books you haven't read recently, or the new top you just bought on Melrose," he tells me, and I smile.

            "How'd you know I went to Melrose?" I ask him, and he deadpans it.  

            "I have my ways."

            I finger the filmy material, a layer of pink see through stuff over another layer of black see through stuff.  New bra, too.  Although he didn't mention that, I have caught him looking at me a few times.  Nice to know he still likes to look at me.

            Looking at him, too…what is it with Angel and leather?  And why does it make me go all googly-girl inside when he wears it?

            "Is that a new jacket?" I ask him, and he looks down at himself.  "Yeah.  You like?"

            I nod, and feel the buttery softness of it between my pointer finger and thumb.  "You always did know how to shop."

            He cracks a grin then, and I look up from his jacket, and he's _thisclose _and I can smell him.

            Woodsy, musky, leathery, spicy, outdoorsy, leathery.  And that something that's undefineably him.

            "Buffy, I…" he murmurs, and my heart can't take it anymore, and I touch a fingertip to his lips, and trace their outline.  He shudders slightly, and closes his eyes.

            "Skin to skin contact," I whisper, "is a very…bad…thing.  One of the things about the comics I never could stay away from…the idea that someone could be so strong, and yet so alone," I say, and continue my exploration of his face.  He breathes involuntarily, and holds perfectly still, not wanting to screw up the moment.

            "An invincible woman, almost unkillable, yet denied simple human contact.  How perfectly sad, and how I so understand her.  You know why I picked up those books in the first place?  Cause they reminded me so much of us.  And I felt just a little better that somebody, somewhere, even if they weren't a real person, could understand and feel the enormity of what I felt," I trail off, and drop my hand to my lap.

            Tears threaten, and I lower my head, not wanting him to see me cry.  Damn it.  'Angel plus Buffy equals heartache and tears.' I'm so freaking sick of that equasion.

            "I'm sorry," he says, and I shake my head vehemtly.  "Don't say sorry.  Angel, please don't say that word.  I'm sick of hearing it," I say, and my voice quavers as the stupid tears start to course down my face.  His own expression crumbles, and he reaches out a questing thumb, and gently wipes the wetness from beneath my eyes with the pad of it.

            He sighs, and pulls me to him.  His arms go around me, and I lean into the familiarity of it, and the rightness and joy of it.  

            I openly sob onto his shoulder, great gasping heaving things that I couldn't stop if I tried.  Why did I call him?  Why did I come here? Why am I not in Iowa like I said I would be?  And why, for the love of sanity, does this feel so damn good?

            He shushes me and rubs my back softly, mumuring _I love you I love you I love you _over and over into my ear, combing back my hair with his fingers and refamiliarizing himself with the planes of my face.

            I sniffle loudly, and try to wipe the wetness off his leather coat.  His hand comes up, grasping my wrist.

            "Don't," he whispers, "leave it there."

            "Why-" I start, and he places a finger over my lips.

            "Because, they're from you, and if this is the last time I get to hold you like this, to comfort you, then I don't want to lose the only physical evidence I have that you were ever here," he tells me, and that starts me blubbering all over again.

            "I love you," he says louder, and I nod into his neck.  And I know why I'm here, and not in corn country with my so called boyfriend.

            Because nothing, not a 'normal' relationship, not sex, not anything, can compete with this.

            I don't care if we never touch again.  

            If I can just have the memory of his skin on mine, of his eyes and his hands, of his shoulders and nose and hair, I can make it.  

            Every.  Single.  Moment.  of this past year was worth it just for this minute of Angel.

            I want to tell him this; I pull back slightly and open my mouth to tell him, and his lips capture mine without hesitation.

            And I know suddenly that if I was Rogue, and had to go my whole life without any little bitty bit of contact, that I would hurl myself into the Hudson and float away without a second thought.

            A wave of heat races up my spine, and I feel like my entire body is one giant nerve ending as Angel's lips ply mine with delicate pressure.

            I sink my hands into his short hair, and he presses his body up against mine, illiciting a moan from me I didn't mean to vocalize.

            He growls softly, and pushes his tounge against my lips, sliding it in when I open for him.

            The welcome coolness tones down some of my heat, and I'd like to think he receives some pleasure from my 98.6 degree body.

            His hands roam all over me, settling on my hips, and we stand, not being able to handle another second without our bodies touching everywhere.  He rocks my pelvis into his, and I cry out, jerking his head closer to mine, my X rated dream coming to the forefront of my thoughts again.

            _Insidemeallaroundmefillmeupineedyouican'tlivewithoutyourtouch_

His lips move to lave a line of wetness down to the juncture of my shoulder and neck, and he stops briefly when his mouth touches my scar.  His scar.

            I clamp my teeth down on his throat, over his dead jugular, and he picks me up, suckling on his mark as my legs go around his waist.

            I think the other couple that had been out on the patio has left by now; god I hope so for their sake.

            A rumbly sound issues from his chest, and it tickles the part of my body touching his.

            His left hand comes around between us, and he tentatively brushes my nipple with his fingers.

            I jump as if electrocuted, and I sink into his body, kissing his jaw, the stubble and saltiness of him firing my nerves all over again.

            The patio door opens, and several teenagers spill out onto the patio, loudly discussing the merits of Cyclops and Jean Grey's relationship versus Gambit and Rogues.

            I lower my legs from around Angel's waist, and twist away from his hands, the desire in me doused like a fire killed by water.

            He leans against the railing behind me, panting harshly, and covering his face with a hand.  I see a flash of yellow eyes and distended teeth, and turn my back on him, retreating to our table and my sanity.

            I lay my head on my forearms, and don't look up as he rejoins me, not saying a word.

            "Sorry," I say, and he laughs, a bitter, broken sound that chills my heart.

            "Don't be," he says, "It's not like I tried to stop you."

            I stand suddenly, grabbing my purse and trying to make a break for the door, and the safety of the street.

            "Wait, Buffy," he calls, and follows me to the door and out of the coffeehouse onto the boulevard.

            "Angel," I say, and face him.  "Nothing can change for us.  I want you.  You want me.  And we can't have each other.  Unless I feel like sending you to hell again, and trust me, not in the cards right now."  I touch my lips involuntarily; they are bruised and swollen feeling.  But in a good way.

            He shakes his head almost violently, and I hear his neck crack as he does so.  "I know this one, Buffy.  You don't have to tell me again," he whispers harshly, and I wince at the dead tone in his voice.  "Can I please just walk you home?"

            "Can you drive me?  Bel Air is a lot far for a midnight stroll," I say, nodding toward his boat of a car.  I would never tell him, but the car is totally a chick magnet.

            He bobs his head in ascent, and I settle in the passenger seat, not bothering to open the door.  He starts up the engine, and I relesh the feel of the leather seats on my back and butt, the left over warmth penetrating my body like his touch can't.

            A quiet fifteen minutes later, and we're at the parking garage where my dad houses his Corvette.  Angel parks on the street, and follows me to the front door.  I fumble in my purse for the keys, and manage to find them without dropping them more than twice.

            "I know this sounds strange, Buffy, but I'm glad you called me," he says, and takes my hand in his, pressing it over his heart.

            "You sure?  Cause I'm not entirely certain how I feel right now," I say, and his brown eyes glitter in the light from the lamp on the porch.

            "I am," he answers, and lowers his head, stealing my breath as he lightly presses his mouth against mine, and breaks away just as I am reaching for him.

            "I…" I start, and then stop.  There are no words.  He nods.  He gets it.

            "Me too."

            He turns from me then, and walks to his car as I unlock the door.

            "Buffy," he says suddenly, and I turn back toward the street, and he's right in front of me.

            "Yeah?"

            "Next time, I pick the movie."

            I can't help but smile, and he runs a hand down my arm, and then he's gone.

            I hear the car engine fire up, and don't turn to watch him drive off.  I shut the door behind me shakily, and try to ignore the words that race through my mind.

            _I love you.  I try not to, but I can't stop._

I never will, Angel.  

Fin.


End file.
